


An Eye more ancient than Arda

by undercat



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Tentacles, educational erotic etchings, eldritch body horror, xeno I suppose?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-19 00:09:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16129538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undercat/pseuds/undercat
Summary: “I'm not particularly tentacley,” said Annatar, “and even if I were, it would burn away your eyes and sanity alike to see me in full.”Celebrimbor is intrigued by Annatar's alien nature.





	An Eye more ancient than Arda

**Author's Note:**

> Annatar, meaning _Gift-Lord_ , is the name Sauron goes by in Eregion.
> 
> Tyelperinquar is the Quenya form of Celebrimbor's name; Tyelpe is the affectionate diminutive.

“I don't suppose you feel any compulsion to be _helpful_ for once,” Celebrimbor said, glancing at Annatar.

He was browsing through the books in his colleague's study, looking for Dâirubêth's treatise on the geology of central Númenor. It wasn't where he expected it to be – Annatar knew he was looking for it and had oh-so-kindly rearranged his entire library.

Annatar merely blinked at him, unhelpfully, and didn't move from where he was lounging on the divan. “Let me know when you find it; I'm curious to know your thoughts. I myself think Dâirubêth is wrong about the Meneltarma's composition, though I will grant that, unlike her, I haven't been to the mountain. Still, the rock samples the Númenóreans brought here were clearly an alkali basalt ...”

Celebrimbor huffed, turning back to the bookshelf. “And how could _I_ comment, without seeing her actual text?” He took a sip of his brandy and rolled it around in his mouth with pleasure - it had been laid down in an exceptional year; he should see about finding another few bottles - before setting it down on a table and continuing his search.

There was one book he had not seen before, bound in an unusual fashion; he slid it out to examine the binding. Something in Annatar's presence changed then, but not in an alarming way, so Celebrimbor opened the book, and – it was not what he expected.

He glanced over his shoulder at Annatar, who was giving off an air of exceptional innocence, and, amused, started to flip through the pages. The language was unfamiliar, but the script was a variant of the Tengwar (the influence of Númenórean sailors, perhaps?) and he recognized some of the inflectional affixes: clearly a Haradric language, and likely from the western branch of the family. The pictures, however…

“Annatar, since when have you taken an interest in erotica?”

“It's _educational_ ,” said Annatar, standing very close behind him now, mouth almost touching his ear. Celebrimbor had neither heard nor felt him move; he shivered in delight, and turned around to face his lover.

Annatar had the smallest of smiles on his face. “I was, I admit, caught by surprise when I saw in your mind your… interest in me. I had never before considered engaging in such a ridiculously incarnate activity, but I found myself strangely intrigued, thus the research. I can't say I have regrets; it's been more than tolerable.”

Celebrimbor reached for the brandy and took another sip, hoping the cut crystal glass hid his own smile; he found himself terribly flattered. “You found instructional manuals to _educate_ yourself? Of course you would - Varda forbid you not be the best at, the most knowledgeable about, any _activity_ that catches your fancy.”

Annatar raised an eyebrow, smug. “And am I not?”

“Tolerably, I suppose,” said Celebrimbor, feeling magnanimous. He looked back at the book. “I didn't know that use of the Tengwar had spread so far south,” he said, idly turning through the pages. And then he stopped, for one of the drawings caught his eye: a woman and two octopuses, entwined about her.

“Ah,” said Annatar. “I was startled myself at some of the more outlandish illustrations. Intriguing, I suppose, in a queer sort of way; mortals can be impressively creative.”

Celebrimbor swallowed, aware he should disapprove of the heated shiver that ran up his spine. “In truth,” he lied, “it was the artistic style that drew my attention.”

The feel of Annatar's mind against his was not reassuring: he was clearly undeceived. But it _was_ a lovely picture: done in color and well composed, though the depiction of the cephalopods' eyes was inaccurate, the pupils being half circles instead of the bars they were in nature. He looked up at Annatar – were _his_ pupils no longer entirely round? Celebrimbor licked his lips: he had a sudden, vivid thought of Annatar as the octopus, lips open and around him, many arms coiling about him, around him, in him, taking its pleasure…

Annatar had clearly seen that thought, and his eyes gleamed in response, golden and entirely alien. Celebrimbor might once have found their look alarming; now he found it thrilling, and his heart quickened.

He set the book down and, affecting a nonchalant air, walked over to the couch and sprawled across it. Annatar leaned against the bookshelf, arms crossed: intent, present, and very amused.

“So,” Celebrimbor said, and was proud of how light his voice was, “you clearly don't want to discuss Númenor's geologic history, given that you've stashed away that treatise -”

“It's in the third drawer of the desk,” said Annatar helpfully.

Celebrimbor smiled brightly. “Well then! Since you're now in the mood to answer questions, I do have several on -”

“Mollusk biology?”

Celebrimbor hoped his glare was suitably stern, suspected it wasn't. “Biology indeed! Another branch though: tell me more about your relationship with your physical form. My people call such bodies as the Ainur wear a _veil_ , and understand them to be as clothing to your kind, though clearly that's somewhat metaphorical, given that I've yet to see any cloak or dress that can eat or breathe. But cloth can be altered into many shapes and designs – is it such with you?”

There was a wolf-like smile on Annatar's face as he walked over to him and sank gracefully to the floor next to him, picking up one leg and pressing a kiss to the ankle, all in one smooth motion. Celebrimbor's breath quickened.

“Somewhat,” he said. “I couldn't grow a third arm, but I could shed this body and create one anew, perhaps one that looked the same but with many arms: would that be pleasing to you?” He ran a hand up Celebrimbor's calf, then down again, very lightly.

Celebrimbor arched his leg into Annatar's touch, but he was curious too: Annatar's body was more or less Elven, though his control over it was greater even than that of the Eldar's, but he had never talked of its forming. “How exactly? Do you temporarily send your spirit from the flesh and use its elements to create new flesh? And if you fashion a new body, I suppose conservation of mass isn't an issue, though if the size differs (if you grew smaller, say) would the excess flesh reenter the environment unbound; would its elements precipitate from the air or would there be enough excess energy to keep them in the atmosphere – indeed, would they be transformed _to_ energy? For that matter, does a body for you even need to be flesh; could it be rock or flame, as land-spirits become one with trees or streams?” He was rambling, he knew, but he had _so_ many questions.

Annatar laughed a little. “See, this is why I am glad to have come to your city, Tyelperinquar: most of my kind are content to simply take on or discard bodies without consideration of the mechanics. And in answer to your last question, I'm partial to animal bodies: for all their frailties, they _do_ have certain advantages in manipulating the physical world. I suppose I _could_ send myself into a vein of gold, but it would make it difficult to then _fashion_ that gold into something.” He looked at Celebrimbor speculatively. “Or I could project images, sensations into your mind which you would perceive as real."

Now _that_ was interesting, Celebrimbor thought. “How?” he asked again, propping himself up on one elbow. “Some reflection of the Music? Would it be but an illusion, or could you let some of your true nature shine through and into this physical space?”

“I'm not particularly tentacley,” said Annatar, “and even if I were, it would burn away your eyes and sanity alike to see me in full.”

Celebrimbor sat up to hear that, geology and cephalopods and the mechanics of shifting shape suddenly forgotten. “You could lift aside this veil,” - he reached out to brush a hand across Annatar's cheek - “and I could _see_ you?” Oh, but it awoke something in him: how he _wanted_. He had, at times, seen infinity, or something approaching it, in Annatar's mind – the whirling dance of dark planets, the boiling birth of the universe, non-things no language could describe – but that was not _enough_ , not if he could have _more_.

Annatar closed his eyes in pleasure, leaned into Celebrimbor's hand as would a cat, turned his head to press his lips against the palm. “You're looking at me right now.”

“A creation of yours. And yes, an artist's work reflects their self; I'm not saying this body've you made isn't some small facet of you. But – however you are translated into this world, whatever... I mean, I have some idea of what you are -”

“Oh do you?” Annatar cut in, amused.

“- but Annatar, show me more."

Annatar was still and silent for a long moment. “It wouldn't be safe,” he said quietly.

Celebrimbor reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Safe? Since when is that a concern of yours?” he asked, and listened to Annatar sigh.

“I find myself unaccountably fond of your mind, Tyelperinquar. I'd rather not destroy it with the sight.” There was a certain frustration in his thoughts, and he reached out a hand to push a lock of Celebrimbor's hair behind his ear, fingers lingering on the rim, playing with an earring. “How unfair it is _,_ that you should be so limited by your nature, my brilliant one.”

But Celebrimbor found he didn't care about the consequences. “Dull yourself, if you must, for the sake of my sanity, but… You call yourself the Lord of Gifts: give me this. I want this. I want to see. I want to see _everything_.”

Annatar gazed at him, eyes wide. “Well,” he said slowly, “I'd prefer you to remain sane, so not everything. But as much as - if you insist. If this is what you would have of me.”

Celebrimbor swallowed, excited. “Yes,” he said, and his voice was steady.

Annatar's presence was briefly overwhelming, something of his true power making itself known, before it faded away. “Then you shall have it. And if it's too much, well, we can always go back to the tentacles.”

“Oh no,” said Celebrimbor, “I want the tentacles too.”

Annatar laughed, and kissed him.

 

~~~

 

Despite their talk, Annatar did nothing for several weeks. Their lives continued as usual: debates with their colleagues, the dead end they'd hit on the spell-mechanics that would link multiple Rings together in a feedback loop, Celebrimbor and Celebrían each trying to foist off the tedious duties of rulership onto the other...

Celebrimbor knew Annatar hadn't forgotten – Annatar forgot nothing – but other things demanded their time. They stole a few moments together (Celebrimbor pushing him to his knees to take his mouth; Annatar pressing him against a wall, entering him with care and force), but took no long hours to themselves. Finally, after a sleepless week of work and a solid day of sleep, Celebrimbor grew restless and sought him out. He found Annatar giving a lecture; the Maia continued without pause or visible notice (though to his mind he spoke: _so you finally deign to awaken, Tyelperinquar? How you_ inconvenience _me, with your ridiculous incarnate needs)_ but after his talk was finished, he shrugged off all questions and grasped Celebrimbor by the wrist, and led him away, and to his rooms.

Once there, Annatar shut and locked the door, and poured him a glass of fortified wine.

“What, no further lecture on how rude it is of me to sleep?”

Annatar smiled. “Drink,” he said, “and take off your clothes.”

Bemused, Celebrimbor did both. Annatar was rarely so direct in his speech, but he saw no reason to protest, and when he moved behind him, Celebrimbor sighed, and relaxed. Annatar began taking the pins and jewels out of his hair, undoing the braids, running his hands through the locks. He leaned into the touch: there was little so pleasant. But too soon Annatar's hands moved away from his hair and to his shoulders instead, and they were inexorably pushing him down, down, but -

It was not hands that forced him to his knees. It was more as though he were a magnet pressed upon by its opposite pole. No, not _as_ : it _was_ field lines that held him down, vectors transmuted into force, and they held him in place. And he - he had never felt this, held powerless by naught but the very constraints of nature, and he struggled against the currents (but not to escape).

“Annatar, what - ?”

“Did you not ask for this, Tyelperinquar my sweet?” Annatar said, and oh, but there was some strange music in his voice.

 _Ah,_ Celebrimbor though, _ah._

He looked around and - there was nothing terrible to see, but the familiar room was strange. Something was _off_ about his desk: yes, the leg attached to the furthest corner of the surface was yet the closest where it touched the floor, and a half-covered lampstone looked to have a pupil and it… winked at him? Celebrimbor blinked back, bemused, and he laughed, for the thrill of it all.

Annatar laughed too, and his laugh was bright and impossibly smug, and the hands that were in his hair felt cold and hard, like granite, but the fingers had no joints: they were clammy and slithered against his scalp, and it seemed that there were far more than ten.

It was strange, but not unpleasant, so Celebrimbor let Annatar pet him, sighing softly, but then his friend's presence changed: it warmed, like gold in a fire, and the waves his body gave off moved from heat into visible light, and then there was a brilliance filling the room, colors higher than the visible, and it seemed that his skin blistered in the tight spectrum. Celebrimbor had to close his eyes against the piercing brightness, lest they burn away. But as soon as his eyes closed, the light vanished, and there was nothing but blackness on the other side of his eyelids, blackness and howls in the distance, and there were strange tendrils crawling across his shoulders, and for all that Annatar was behind him, Celebrimbor knew from all directions and in all dimensions he was being _watched_.

He thought, dimly, that Annatar had moved to stand in front of him, and so he opened his eyes, and dared a glance upwards: Annatar's torso – was it even a torso? No, more a head, a whirling cloud, ringed with turning gears and wet-furred tentacles, and it was made of a thousand fiery eyes. They were all looking at him him, unblinking: he had to squeeze his own eyes shut to escape their gaze (pretend to escape their gaze – but he still _felt_ that fierce attention, all fixed on _him_ ). It was – he could not look, he could not dare to look, he could not…

“Tyelperinquar,” a voice sang sweetly among a thousand other murmuring clicking ringing shouting voices. It was Annatar's familiar one, no louder than the others, but more hearable to his ears, or more bearable. He risked opening his eyes again: innumerable heads, of men and beasts and spinning wheels of vaporous metal. He tried to focus on one that may have been a wolf's, or a shadow of a bloody fanged mouth, but it shifted out of sight: too much, too much (not enough, _never_ ). “Tyelpe,” said Annatar, “close your eyes,” and he did.

A hand touched his face – it _was_ a hand, a real hand: warm, the right shape, skin against skin, and he was grateful. A thumb brushed his lips, still reassuringly normal. “Open your mouth,” several voices said softly.

He did.

What entered his mouth was not a cock but a tongue, no, a tongue with _teeth,_ now a tentacle, now multiple writhing tentacles, formless and flowing, hard like rock or cold metal, burning like the fires at the heart of the earth. He choked – it was too much, he _couldn't_ \- and choked again as he made himself swallow, pushing himself forward. His lover was older than Arda itself, an ancient, alien horror, and Celebrimbor – Celebrimbor wanted to have him, to consume him, to chew him, to swallow him whole. He wanted to _eat_ him.

But it was – it was – his world was spinning around him, his mind tearing apart under the centrifugal forces at work upon him, whirling motion as he moved in circles and circles around the indrawing force that was his friend, and he _wanted_ and everything was splintering breaking dissolving and -

And -

And Annatar pulled away from him (out of him) and when he went to whine he found he could not, for he was gasping for breath.

Celebrimbor let his forehead rest on Annatar's hip. His cock was against his cheek and his hands were in his hair: it was _normal_. He breathed, and let his mind settle, dancing splotches of suffocation splashing against his eyelids. He still… he could rest a moment. His mind skittered away when he tried to recall (he could not dare to recall).

“Have you no care for yourself?” But Annatar sounded fond, and when he knelt down, Celebrimbor sank into the offered embrace. It was furry, like the belly of a dog or a wolf, and the arms around him felt as though they could hinge at any angle: he was comforted. He tried to answer, but his tongue could shape no sounds, nor could his mind form words to speak: Annatar's mind lay close to his, but it had never seemed more alien and impossible.

“Shhh,” said Annatar, and they stayed like that for a long moment. But when they kissed, slow and lazy, it was blood that filled Celebrimbor's mouth. He whined, and Annatar laughed against his lips, the laugh of someone who had no lungs, or far too many, and Celebrimbor saw with some small bit of Annatar's vision the sound bouncing off the walls of the room, but the waves did not look like waves ought, sinusoidal curves did not move so...

“Sssh,” said Annatar, and his voice was _wrong._ He stood up, or flowed up, or stretched up - Celebrimbor was not sure which, and he kept his eyes shut so as not to see. But he did not go far, just traced a half circle around him, and knelt down again, behind him now.

Celebrimbor breathed. _You're safe_ , he told himself, and despite everything, mostly believed it.

Annatar's arms slithered across his chest: they weren't arms at all, not unless arms were round and slippery and possessed of no bones. He struggled, for his body didn't know whether to arch into them or away from them, and he cried out when they coiled about him, the round suckers grasping at his skin. The creature laughed, and then there was a tongue at his neck, then sharp teeth that sank into him: he did not bleed, for the teeth cauterized the flesh, and he did not know if what he felt was pain, but he _felt_.

He could not hear if he cried out, for the clanking clamor of gears around him was too great, but he must have, for Annatar shushed him. _Yes, Tyelpe, so good, just a little more_ , he heard in his mind, and he was being stretched, entered.

It was – it _was –_ tendrils around him and inside him, perhaps slick, perhaps solid, but for all that Celebrimbor tried to _concentrate_ , it was too much to process. He couldn't think, he couldn't even feel: it was too much, he could barely _be_ …

Then there was a palm pressed against his jaw and tentacles in his mouth again, biting at his tongue. Celebrimbor clung to the sensation; he sucked on them, and bit back: the creature inside him pulled back, hissing, growling.

Celebrimbor laughed, high and breathless. He turned his head to kiss him, tangling Annatar's – it wasn't hair, hair didn't coil and grasp and tug so - in his hand to pull him forward. His tongue was like a rough file or the slick surface of an eye, and his skin was – words didn't exist that could describe, so he laughed again, giddy. His pulse raced with something that might have been terror or that might have been euphoria.

Annatar pressed into his mind as he had his body, and it opened for him as had the flesh. Celebrimbor felt his perception slip: in the air whirled uncolors and impossible fractals. Everything _slipped._

What was inside him was a flame, and his nerves sparked to light, and a pale fire ran under his skin, a conflagration that consumed everything in its path. It burned him alive, and he felt only ecstasy and the monstrous mind all around him: he was engulfed by its infiniteness. His world dissolved, narrowed to nothing and everything: hot flesh straining against flesh, penetrated and penetrating at once, and the unknowable soul that was around him and in him, distant yet as close as his own, in a way his own (owned).

The thing that was his lover, his friend, vast beyond comprehension, murmured and moaned, whispered endearments and shouted, innumerable unhearable noises that were all one song.

At some point, his consciousness faded away, mind fleeting, incapable of enduring, till he came to awareness once more and found himself lying in his bed, Annatar beside him. Celebrimbor could once more look at him, the Maia again in his familiar form, though naked and more disheveled than was his wont. His hand was smoothing Celebrimbor's hair, but his face was still, his mind unreadable.

Celebrimbor could barely move; he felt distant from himself, like his body was not him, but he made himself catch Annatar's hand in his. “I see you,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

Annatar loosened at that, going lax, and a spark of joy ran through him, then through them both. He coiled around him, pulling up the blankets to make a warm, dark cocoon. _My Tyelperinquar,_ Annatar whispered in his thoughts, _my own, my precious one,_ and Celebrimbor drifted off to sleep with memories that were not his, of a formless void where dusty stars spun into being with weight and sudden fiery light. In his dreams there was an ever-watching eye, and he smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> The octopus picture is something very similar to the famous Dream of the Fisherman's Wife by Hokusai.


End file.
